


Death And The One You Love

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Accidental Noncon, Boundary discussion, Brief violent imagery, Canon Asexual Character, Jon just wants his boyfriend to have a nice time, M/M, Martin is avatar catnip, Relationship Negotiation, Relationship negotation during tentacle sex, Sex Averse Jon, Sexy use of corpse roots, Tentacle Sex, episode 168 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24328936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: “I’m sorry,” says Martin “Are you asking if I want to—to getfuckedby the grim reaper here and his creepy vines? What the hell, Jon?”“You didn’t tell him you didn’t want to,” Jon points out. “You said you had a boyfriend. Which is true. But what if you had a boyfriend who wanted you to be satisfied, sexually? Even if he couldn’t...contribute much in that regard himself?”*Jon and Martin discuss relationship boundaries; Oliver is just here for a good time.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Oliver Banks/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 75
Kudos: 445





	Death And The One You Love

**Author's Note:**

> I have no real excuse for this, other than the fact that Jon and Martin almost definitely did not have a chance to discuss the role of sex in their relationship prior to the apocalypse, and that we all know every avatar wants Martin. In any case this is just a silly bit of self indulgence and you should never actually negotiate your sexual and relationship boundaries in the middle of a sexual encounter. Have those discussions up front!
> 
> Note that this is tagged for noncon. The noncon elements are fairly mild and unintentional on Oliver's part, however please be aware.

Martin hears Jon start to speak as he walks off. He picks his way through the lattice of pulsing veins that twist above and around him, pressing close on all sides yet never quite blocking his path. They look like grotesque trees, the main bodies thick as trunks, with branches winding and jutting off at odd angles, narrowing down to thin tendrils that grasp at the air. 

The corpse roots, Jon called them. Or was it _routes?_ The first gives the impression of a dead body blossoming from the black soil; the second, an inevitable path followed to the grave. Equally macabre either way—though there’s a certain poetry to it. 

“Bit of a goth, is he?” he mutters to his surroundings. “Cure fan, probably.” The veins simply continue to throb, dark red light pulsing along their lengths in waves; Martin can feel the chill radiating off them, the air brisk with it. 

He keeps walking until he can no longer hear Jon’s voice. Jon will call out to him when he’s done monologuing. Or, more likely, will simply find him. That’s not new for the apocalypse; he did it at the Institute a couple of times, back when Martin was desperately trying to avoid him. No point wandering too far, though, even if Jon can always find him. Martin finds a likely spot and sits down, shrugging off his overstuffed backpack and propping himself against it. He sighs. Nothing to do but wait, for however long it takes Jon to vomit up today’s horror. 

Martin considers pulling out his notebook and writing, but he’s not in the mood. He feels restless, his head buzzing. He feels— 

_Hmm…_

Thing is, all those months immersed in the Lonely, sex was the last thing on Martin’s mind. His libido was only just starting to make itself known again when the world ended, and since then he’s been so busy worrying about Jon, and planning to kill Elias, and being terrified out of his wits, that it really hasn’t been a priority. Even if it was, he and Jon are together all the time and it isn’t as if Jon ever sleeps. It would be a bit awkward to excuse himself from their pilgrimage for a quick wank. 

Now, though, he’s alone—for at least ten minutes, if experience holds out—and creepy as the corpse roots are, they at least make for a bit of seclusion. Of course the Magic Eyeball can still see him, but that’s par for the course these days. Privacy isn’t an option. 

And, he can admit, there’s a bit of a petty thrill to the thought of doing it here. A messy, human middle finger up to Oliver Banks and his gothic tragedy aesthetic. 

“Yeah,” he says to himself. “Why not?” 

He glances around to make sure he’s truly alone, shuffles into a more comfortable position, and then unzips his jeans, tugging them down slightly around his hips. 

It only takes a few strokes to get his cock hard; it’s _really_ been a long time. Martin shuts his eyes against the forest of horrors surrounding him, and pulls up one of his favorite fantasies. He’s on his knees, crammed into the small space beneath Jon’s desk. Jon’s legs are spread wide beneath it, bracketing his shoulders. He’s wearing those maroon trousers that Martin first saw him in, scandalously tight at the crotch. He has his hand fisted in Martin’s hair, just tight enough to hurt, and he pushes Martin’s face insistently against his groin. Martin mouths at him, feeling the hot, hard length of Jon’s cock through his trousers, hearing Jon’s low, rough breathing. His thighs squeeze Martin’s shoulders, urging him on. Martin reaches for Jon’s fly, and Jon murmurs his name softly, and— 

Martin pushes the image away, guilt suddenly rushing through him. What was a harmless fantasy, back when Jon had seemed thoroughly unattainable, now feels like a kind of violation. 

Those three weeks in the cottage, there were a lot of things they didn’t get around to talking about. Martin knows that Jon... _doesn’t._ But he doesn’t know exactly what that means, or what Jon would think of Martin imagining him in that way. It wouldn't be right, without at least talking to Jon first, though Martin has no idea how to broach _that_ conversation. 

His cock is still achingly hard, so he huffs a breath and shuts his eyes again, trying to empty his mind. He focuses on the physical sensations as he fists his cock slowly; the heat pooling in his groin, his balls tightening in anticipation, his thighs clenching involuntarily as arousal rises in slow, inevitable waves. 

An ice cold grip closes on his free hand and Martin yelps in shock, his eyes flying open. A thin, dark red tendril has looped tightly around his wrist, and he realizes with alarm that the small clearing he was in has almost disappeared, the corpse roots crowding close around him, their icy fingers stretching towards him. He leaps to his feet and tugs his hand away, trying to dislodge the tendril. It doesn’t let go, its grip like steel. 

“Shit!” he hisses, yanking at it again. It only tightens further, and he flinches as a vein wraps around his upper arm, another around his thigh. They pulse dark red, and now they’re touching him Martin can actually _feel_ it, waves of contraction like a slow, sickening heartbeat. The roots are all around him now, writhing towards him, more of them curling around his limbs, and Martin realizes frantically that he’s really in trouble here. 

_“Jon!”_ he shouts, as loud as he can, and he barely gets the word out before a root is pushing into his mouth, throbbing obscenely against his tongue. He bites down hard, the texture dense and spongy, but more cold tendrils are pressing between his lips, forcing his mouth wide open. Martin tries to scream around them, but only a muffled whimper comes out. 

_Please, Jon,_ he thinks desperately. 

The roots are wrapped thick around his limbs, now, and they drag him back until he thumps against one of the massive trunks. More of them start snaking around his torso, his shirt riding up as they slide over his belly, cold against his skin. His arms and legs are splayed wide, and Martin has a sudden image of being ripped limb from limb like a cheap toy, his blood splashing over the roots, soaking into their spongy flesh. He can hear pathetic rasping sounds coming from his own throat as the tendrils push further into his mouth, still pulsing with that slow, regular beat. 

A thick vein circles his hips; his unfastened trousers start sliding down around his knees, and suddenly this doesn’t feel quite so mindless. He thrashes helplessly as his pants follow his trousers, and from behind he feels a tendril sliding between his thighs, icy against his balls. There are cold fingers wrapped firmly around his throat, but he can move his head just enough to look down and watch as the thin, black root winds itself several times around his flaccid cock, almost engulfing it. Martin almost chokes on a terrified sob, his heart pounding in fear, silently begging Jon to _know_ he’s in trouble and come find him. 

_Please,_ he thinks frantically, _Please, don’t,_ and he isn’t sure if that’s directed at the corpse roots or at himself, because that vein is contracting in rhythmic waves around his cock and he can feel himself starting to stiffen again. He groans in despair. 

“Isn’t this a picture,” says a voice, as the thicket of roots parts and a man steps into view. “Hello, Martin.”

There isn’t anything obvious about Oliver Banks that says _inhuman,_ nothing missing, or extra, or twisted beyond comprehension. Still he is immediately and clearly not human, and Martin feels a chill run through him beyond the cold of the veins caressing him. He does his best to glare, because it never does to show fear to the fear monsters. 

Oliver smiles. It’s a nice smile—everything about his face is nice, even if it looks a bit like a corpse’s that’s been animated. He takes a couple of steps closer, looking Martin up and down boldly. 

“The Archive certainly has good taste,” he says, good-humored. Martin tries to struggle once more against the tendrils holding him, but they don’t give an inch. Oliver’s smile widens for a moment, and the thick bundle of veins in his mouth starts to withdraw, slowly. 

“Don't try to talk until they're out,” Oliver advises. "You'll only hurt yourself." Martin coughs desperately as the roots leave his mouth, almost retching. He catches his breath, his eyes watering. When he finally manages to look up, Oliver is standing right in front of him, looking amused and interested.

“Let me go!” Martin rasps. He’s aiming for a demand, but it comes out a bit more pathetic. Oliver tilts his head to one side. 

“You’re in my domain,” he says mildly. “You put yourself on display among my corpse roots. I assumed it was an invitation.” 

“It was not a bloody invitation! It was—I was looking for a little bit of _privacy,_ and this was the best I could bloody do, under the circumstances. Now let me _go!”_

“That’s a pity,” says Oliver, lifting a hand to touch his cheek; Martin flinches away. “There isn’t much about humanity that interests me these days, but something about you is very appealing.”

He really is terribly handsome, and god, that cold tendril is still grasping Martin’s cock, contracting around it in a way that’s impossible to ignore. He takes a deep breath and steels himself. 

“I have a boyfriend,” he says, as icily as he can muster under the circumstances. Oliver lets his hand fall. 

“If you’re sure,” he sighs, and takes a step back. The roots start to loosen around Martin’s limbs, sliding reluctantly away from his skin. 

_“Are_ you sure, Martin?” 

Martin whips his head in the direction of Jon’s voice. Jon is standing between two of those great, dark trunks, having pushed past the tangle of roots. He's breathing hard, hair tousled as if he’s run here, but now he’s standing still, and there’s a lilting note of curiosity in his voice. His eyes are dark and depthless as they take in Martin’s half-naked form, still wound loosely with those pulsing veins, his obvious erection.

“Jon!” Martin cries with relief. Oliver backs away, raising his hands placatingly.

“It was a misunderstanding—” he starts to say, but Jon continues talking, ignoring him. 

“Well, Martin?” His voice is gentle and inquisitive. Martin stares. 

“I’m sorry,” says Martin “Are you asking if I want to—to get _fucked_ by the grim reaper here and his creepy vines? What the hell, Jon?”

“You didn’t tell him you didn’t want to,” Jon points out. “You said you had a boyfriend. Which is true. But what if you had a boyfriend who wanted you to be satisfied, sexually? Even if he couldn’t...contribute much in that regard himself?” 

“Jon…” Martin is aghast. “Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t _want_ anyone else. You’re enough for me—more than enough, god, what we have—sex doesn’t even compare!” 

“Should I...leave you to it—?” asks Oliver. Jon turns a fearsome glare on him, which for an instant seems to have too many eyes in it. 

“Don’t move,” he growls, and turns back to Martin. “It’s not about _comparing,_ Martin. I’m not feeling inadequate here. But sex is something you enjoy, yes? Something you’d like to have once in a while?”

“I mean, theoretically.” Martin mutters, his face flaming. He can’t believe this is a real conversation they’re having in the post-apocalypse with an avatar of death standing right there. The roots have stopped retreating and are now pulsing idly against his skin, and his cock is apparently still _extremely_ interested in the proceedings. 

“It isn’t something I enjoy, myself. But I’m not sexually jealous, so I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t indulge on occasion.” Jon’s tone is disgustingly reasonable. “Georgie and I—yes I _know_ you don’t like me bringing up our relationship, Martin—we had a similar arrangement. I’m sure you and I would have talked about it, eventually. If I hadn’t ended the world.”

“It wasn’t your—” Martin stops himself; this isn’t the time for a rehash of that discussion. He searches Jon’s face, which is open and honest and doesn’t show any sign that he’s holding back hurt. He glances at Oliver, who’s pretending very hard to not be able to hear their conversation, though he’s betrayed by the way the tendrils are caressing Martin’s skin. He looks back to Jon again, who gives him a gentle smile. Martin takes a deep breath; he can’t believe he’s considering this. 

“I can’t believe I’m considering this,” he says, then: “Okay. All right. But you and I _are_ going to talk about this later, at length.”

“Of course, love,” Jon says, and it’s not fair how his voice can be so soft and tender. “For now, do you want me to leave? Or stay with you.”

“I mean, isn’t it a bit uncomfortable for you, since you don’t—?”

“I don’t like being, uh, touched sexually, myself. But I—I would be more than pleased to stay and...see you enjoy yourself.” For all his matter of fact talk, Jon is blushing furiously now, and Martin can’t help smiling. He really has an adorable boyfriend. 

“You’re going to stay then, Jon?” says Oliver smoothly. “Of course, you couldn’t pass up an opportunity to _watch,_ could you? To see your beloved experience _la petite mort_ at my hands.” 

As he walks forward the veins tighten around Martin’s body again, not painfully, just tight enough that they take all his weight. They crawl over his skin, cold and inquisitive, raising goosebumps as they go, and one slides slowly along the crease of his thigh, so near to his aching cock but not quite touching. Oliver comes close to him, chest to chest, and raises a hand to his cheek. Martin’s breath catches in his throat and he can’t help leaning into the touch. Oliver’s palm is cool, and this close he smells slightly sweet, like the memory of dried flowers. 

“Beloved of the Archive,” Oliver murmurs, “Able to walk untouched through the realms of terror. You _are_ a unique thing.” 

His lips brush over Martin’s as that teasing root circles his cock in earnest, and Martin moans helplessly against his mouth. Oliver kisses him slow and deep, one hand cupping Martin’s cheek and one pressed against his heart, and the hand that twists into Martin’s hair is Jon’s, curling the strands through his fingers in a way that is desperately intimate. Martin sighs at that sweet, well-known touch, and when Oliver pulls back, Jon tugs gently on his hair, tipping Martin’s head to the side so Jon can kiss him in turn. Martin’s heart is pounding, the rush of sensations almost dizzying, with Oliver pressed against his chest and Jon kissing him sweetly and the corpse roots pulsing slow and insistent against his body, enveloping him in their cold embrace. He hears himself cry out weakly when Jon releases him, and Oliver chuckles. 

“That’s quite a kiss,” he murmurs with amusement. Jon gives a satisfied _hmm._

“Please,” Martin breathes. He can barely keep his feet under him, sagging into the roots’ embrace, his whole body alive with desire. His hips are bucking against the air as the vein wound around his cock pulses, and where a partner would give him more—faster, harder—the alien tendril maintains its sluggish, maddening rhythm, his arousal building with agonizing slowness. 

“What is it, Martin?” Jon asks, stroking his hair. 

“What do you want?” asks Oliver, kissing his throat. 

“Please...I want to suck you off. Please, let me—” 

If you asked him, Martin couldn’t say which of them he meant in the moment. And fortunately he doesn’t have to explain, as the roots twist and press him gently to his knees. Oliver Banks stands over him, a beautiful specter of death, and Martin thinks hazily that this might be a kind of worship. Oliver’s cock is long and slim and circumcised—something Martin’s rarely seen in person, an odd reminder that this man was human, once. 

Martin takes it in his mouth. Oliver tastes only faintly of salt, but his cock leaks eager slick over Martin’s tongue, and he hears Oliver moan something that might be his name. Jon’s fingers twist in his hair again, tightening just enough to hurt and Martin wonders if Jon _knows_ about his well-worn fantasies, at least subconsciously. He groans as Oliver thrusts into his mouth, as his own hips thrust at nothing, the slow, inexorable rhythm of the tendril around his cock driving him closer and closer to the precipice, his whole body given up to the pulsing embrace of the corpse roots. 

“I love you, Martin,” he hears Jon murmur, low and husky. “You’re so lovely, so perfect, I love seeing you like this, lost in your own pleasure. I want to see you come, sweetheart, let me see you come for me…” 

And Martin is gone, tipped over the edge as his orgasm rolls through him in slow, relentless waves, seeming to go on forever. He whimpers mindlessly around Oliver’s cock, sucks it deep and hard as pleasure courses through his body, and Oliver’s hands cup his cheeks as he comes, silently, the bitter taste of his semen flooding Martin’s mouth. Martin swallows, the last aftershocks of his climax pulsing through him, while Jon continues to murmur filthy endearments. Martin never knew that Jon had it in him, and he files _that_ away for future consideration. 

Oliver’s softening cock withdraws from his mouth and the tendrils gradually begin unwinding from around Martin’s body. He slumps, feeble, the roots’ chill still seeping through his flesh. Jon is beside him then, grasping his shoulders and helping him carefully to his feet, his thin hands strong and comforting. Martin tugs his clothes back into place, and leans into Jon’s support, still feeling weak and shaky. Oliver is smiling that handsome, inhuman smile of his. 

“Nice to see you, Jon,” he says, inclining his head. “And a _true pleasure_ to meet you, Martin.” Oliver reaches for his hand, and in a swift gesture, draws it to his lips and kisses Martin’s knuckles. Martin feels himself flush all over again. 

“Umm, yeah, nice to meet you,” he says. 

“We should be going,” says Jon, stiffly, and Martin nods, casting about to see where his backpack has got to. 

“Certainly,” says Oliver benevolently. “Of course you have safe passage through my domain.”

“I know that we do,” Jon says, and there’s that glint of Too Many Eyes for another instant, like a dog raising its hackles. Oliver chuckles quietly. Martin shoulders his backpack, and grasps Jon’s hand firmly in his. 

“Ready to go?” he asks, squeezing a little. Jon nods, and they turn away from the avatar of death, and start walking through the corpse roots. 

“Oh, I forgot to ask him!” Martin says after a couple of minutes. 

“What’s that?”

“Is it corpse _roots_ or corpse _routes?_ Do you know?”

“I, uh, I think it’s both, actually,” says Jon, frowning a little; he hasn’t let go of Martin’s hand. He’s silent for a moment, and then: “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I...I did,” says Martin. “Did you—was it okay? You didn’t...mind?”

“Other than him getting all chivalrous with you just there?” Jon snorts, and then his voice goes soft. “No, I’m—I’m glad you enjoyed it. I was being honest, you know. It does make me happy, to see you enjoy yourself that way. You looked...gorgeous.”

“Oh,” says Martin. He can feel himself blushing again, and honestly, can’t he catch a break? “I’m...glad you were there, Jon.”

“Oh,” it’s Jon’s turn to say, and when Martin looks at him, he’s smiling shyly. His fingers tighten around Martin’s for a moment. 

“We do still need to have a proper talk about this,” Martin says, schooling his voice into some semblance of seriousness. “I mean, just in case there’s a future after all this.”

“Of course,” says Jon seriously. “Though...we probably don’t have to worry _too_ much about this sort of thing. Considering the current...situation. Oliver was probably a bit of an outlier.” 

Martin considers for a moment whether to say anything, because it might not be an issue. There’s no way of saying who they’ll meet on their pilgrimage route. Still, he decides, better safe than sorry. 

“Hmm,” he says. “We should, ahh...probably have that talk before we enter any Vast domains. Just in case.” 

Jon stares at him, looking momentarily shocked, and then his expression relaxes into a laugh. 

“Unbelievable,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m dating the most eligible bachelor in the apocalypse.” 

“Lucky you, eh?” Martin teases, releasing Jon’s hand and wrapping an arm around his shoulder instead. Jon leans into him, and ducks his head against Martin’s shoulder.

“Lucky me,” he agrees. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me @cuttoothed on tumblr!


End file.
